They met at a music store, an appropriate beginning for an impossible relationship that should have never taken root. But somehow, Natasha Romanoff, world renowned violinist, and Clint Barton, aspiring country singer yet to hit it big, found themselves in a coffee shop on the corner, discussing their completely different tastes in music.
“Top three favorite musicians,” Clint said. He raised his eyebrows expectantly as he met Natasha’s gaze over the rim of his cup. Black coffee for him, cappuccino with cinnamon and nutmeg for her.
Natasha glanced off to the side in thought, her perfectly manicured red fingernails tapping out a rhythm on the tabletop.
“Tchaikovsky, of course,” she said slowly. “Rimsky-Korsakov…” She paused and her fingers went still and silent, palm laid flat to the table as she narrowed down the last composer. “Shostakovich,” she said with finality, confident in her decision.
Clint made a face. “Don’t you ever want to listen to something a little more…I don’t know…up to date?”
“They’re classics for a reason,” Natasha protested. Despite the coolness of her tone, there was a glint of amusement in her eyes. “What about you?”
Clint didn’t even have to think about it. “Johnny Cash, Willie Nelson, and Glen Campbell.”
Natasha didn’t make a face. She was too composed for that. But she did make a disgruntled noise. Clint spread his hands.
“What?” he said with a laugh. “I didn’t say you had to approve.”
“Don’t you ever want to listen to something with a little less…” Natasha waved her hand in a dismissive gesture as she searched for the right word. “Twang?”
“Watch it, lady,” Clint said lightly. “I grew up on that music. A Boy Named Sue was the first song I learned on my guitar when I was seven. I haven’t looked back since.”
Natasha pressed her lips into a barely-there smile with a small hum. “There’s still time to convert you.”
“The challenge of Russian composers.”
Clint snorted. “You’ll convert me to Swan Lake as soon as I can convert you to Ring of Fire.” He squinted on eye shut as he looked at her. “Although I could picture you as a Carrie Underwood fan. Singing at the top of your lungs about totaling the cheating ex-boyfriend’s car.”
Natasha ducked her head with a soft laugh - the first laugh Clint had heard from her and he wanted to hear it again and again as often as possible.
“Fine,” she said. “I’ll admit it. Maybe country music has its perks. Just for that one song alone.”
“I knew it. You’ve memorized all the words, haven’t you?”
“No, but it sounds like something I should take notes on.”
Clint shook his head. “I’ve created a monster.”
His phone went off in his pocket with a text message, sending up a tinny refrain. Clint sighed. His brother’s car finally gave up the ghost and he needed a ride home.
Natasha reached across the table and took Clint’s phone.
“Uh,” he said. “What are you doing?”
“Getting rid of your ringtone,” Natasha muttered, flicking through his screen.
“Excuse me. That was a classic.”
Natasha huffed. “No, it was not. If you want a classic, we can talk about Beethoven’s Fifth, or literally anything by Vivaldi. Not Rhinestone Cowboy.”
Clint opened his mouth to object then snapped his mouth shut again when the full impact of Natasha’s words sank in. He leaned back, drumming his hands on the table in victory.
“So you do listen to country music,” he said with a smirk.
Natasha slid his phone across the table back to him and rose from her chair.
“And I suspect you know more about Russian composers than you’re letting on,” she replied. “I’ll quiz you on that next time.”
Clint glanced down at his phone. Natasha’s number was nestled into his contact list under Swan Lake.
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